


Love Until We Burn Up

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Closing in Closer to You [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dom!Clara, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Open Relationships, Porn With Plot, Smut, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7238242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by their attendance at a wife-swapping dinner, Clara has a proposal for the Doctor: the kind of proposal that involves her, another woman, and doing a whole bunch of things that are generally R-rated. The Doctor is, predictably, less than happy about sharing <em>his</em> Clara, but she has some persuasive techniques up her sleeve...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Until We Burn Up

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is the second part of this series... and this part is MUCH smuttier than part one, have no fear. (Well it is once you've got past the initial space marriage part... if you're just here for the smut, skip the first few paras.) 
> 
> For [Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw), who asked for a sequel and is now going to get two.

The first time they’d got space-married, it had been an accident. They honestly weren’t trying to; it had been a gross misunderstanding – or so the Doctor had claimed, later that night, as they lay squeezed together on a narrow bed in a hut on some godforsaken planet out past Orion. A simple mistranslation, the TARDIS’s circuits had malfunctioned, and the next thing either of them knew, they were husband and wife. Or something along those lines, they hadn’t bothered finding out what the local terms were. But once the embarrassment and the shock had passed, they both might have described it as funny, or passed it off as an anecdote to share at dinner parties one day, but both would have assured you it was a mistake. Indeed, once they’d managed to leave, there had been a brief conversation on the TARDIS about space-divorce, the Doctor rolling his eyes almightily at Clara’s words as she grinned at him mischievously, darting across to him and kissing him once before disappearing with a laugh to her bedroom.

The second time had been something to do with alcohol, and it _technically_ wasn’t a space-marriage because it _technically_ hadn’t happened in space – or at least what Clara termed as “space” anyway. The Doctor wasn’t sure whether that made it better or worse, but he tried to console himself with the fact that he probably wasn’t legally bound by Earth traditions anyway, so legally speaking the whole thing was probably invalid. Or so he hoped. Or at least pretended to hope, in Clara’s company, because she seemed to be taking the whole thing far too lightly, and the gravity of the situation must be upheld at all times, because _dammit, this was the second time, she was going to notice how he felt_. This time it had been her fault anyway, asking to be taken to Vegas, although it wasn’t his fault that he’d messed up the dates and they’d landed in the 1960s. He hadn’t been _trying_ to. It wasn’t his fault that her ID had been declined – “how can you have been born in 1986?! Nice try, sweetheart. Tell us what, give us a kiss and I’ll get you a drink” – and he’d taken offence, and somehow in the process been mistaken for her boyfriend. Clara had – admittedly – been less than argumentative about this fact, and the bartender had grumbled and brought them drink after drink of what, in retrospect, had tasted a little too bitter to be simply fruit juice. No wonder Clara had giggled so almightily after the first beverage, no wonder she had climbed into his lap after the third and kissed him until he stopped complaining about decency or keeping up appearances. The next morning they’d woken up in a hotel bed – him thanking the stars for their clothed state – with a marriage licence between them and a hangover from hell. And Clara? Clara had only laughed. He loved her laugh, he loved her smile, but in that moment the sound was irksome to the neurons of his physiologically superior – he distinctly recalled shouting that – brain, and he’d told her so in so many words. She had fallen silent then and returned to the TARDIS, where she’d shunned his company for days until the awkwardness thawed, the hangover faded, and he’d found her in the console room one morning in her dressing gown, a conciliatory plate of pancakes in her hands.

The third time, they’d been on a planet with empathic beings, and if the Doctor was honest, in his eyes, that was the first one that “counted.” Clara had been injured, and he had grown angry at himself, angry at her carelessness, and thus within five minutes the locals had discerned the depths of his affection for his companion, and smiled at him knowingly as he tended to her. She’d taken his hand and pulled him to lie beside her, nuzzling into his chest with a tired little smile, falling asleep as she rested safe in the enclave of his arms. When they’d been found, the locals had made quiet sounds of contentment, and the next morning there had been – despite his and Clara’s tokenistic protestations – a beautiful ceremony under a tree that resembled a weeping willow, Clara’s hands warm in his own as she gazed into his eyes and understood, for the first time, what it meant to love a Time Lord. When they’d returned to the TARDIS there had been warm kisses and soft murmurs of affection, admissions of love and confessions of adoration, as both human and Time Lord finally realised that they had found love quite accidentally.

It was not until after the fourth time – on a beach beside a sea of pure diamond – that Clara had taken his hand and led him to her bedchamber, giving him the look he had first imagined many, many moons ago; the look he had envisioned that night at Markus Mayhew’s dinner as she was led away by a strange woman. She had pushed him gently but insistently down on the edge of her bed, stripping off her jacket inelegantly, peeling away her sheer dress and camisole – _dear_ _gods,_ he thought to himself idly, _and she thinks_ I _wear too many layers_ – to reveal a beautifully mismatched set of bra and knickers that somehow only managed to arouse him further. She had lowered herself onto his lap then, meeting his gaze and giving him silent permission as his hands rested on her hips, his lips rising to meet her collarbone, her sternum, the edge of her bra, reverently and softly, her name slipping from his mouth unbidden as she unbuttoned his shirt and pressed tender kisses to his neck. When they came, in perfect unison, the only words they were able to form, again and again, were _I love you_ , a mantra reiterated silently as they held each other in the afterglow; warm, content, but exhausted.

The fifth time was his idea – his gift to her, he told himself as he made the arrangements necessary. It was as romantic as he could manage, with rings for them both made from the heart of a long-dead star that – he informed her softly afterwards – had been named _Clara._ Her eyes had widened as she contemplated the mystery that was, for her, her space-husband – oh, how he loathed that term, although it was almost tolerable from her lips, so he endured it with a smile – and his actions, for she knew without him having to form the words that he had transcended time and space to ensure that someone, somewhere, had named a star for her. _Clara. Bright, clear._ As bright as a thousand stars, he told her, and his love for her as clear to him as it was possible to be. She’d made a joke he hadn’t understood about having Clara upon his fingers, but he’d smiled at her from the bed of their dwelling for the night, and she’d returned the look tenfold. He understood that look, he understood the sentiment behind it, and so he had crossed the room to her and allowed her show him what she had meant. 

The sixth time had been her idea, and it had gone a little wrong, unused as she was to flying the TARDIS by herself. The time machine had tried its utmost to help, had tried to direct her thief’s human surely enough, but the landing had been rough and thus the Doctor had found Clara, shaken, in the console room, weeping softly as she lamented what she had described as her _inability to offer him the universe._ There had been a long discussion, more weeping – from her –  and then he had enfolded her in his arms, showing her that she was his universe, that she was enough for him to just be her, and the TARDIS had begrudgingly given the room a little shake, encouraging them to step outside. There had been a concert by an artist Clara dimly recalled her father – and, indeed, her Time Lord – enjoying, and then a bar, and then a haze of celebration before the artist had proclaimed them man and wife.

The seventh time had been mostly accidental, and largely due to the TARDIS’s inability to leave the happy couple be. Deep within the vortex, as they lay in each other’s embrace, there was a soft sound and then Clara felt a presence in her mind that she had sensed a long time ago – a presence that was both comforting and invasive, a presence that somehow managed to both love and scorn her. The Doctor had opened his eyes and affixed her with a long, guilty look, apologies tumbling from his mouth before he’d kissed her to allay her fears, their minds meeting alongside that of the _presence._ Thus they had been joined in what passed for matrimony upon Gallifrey, wed by their ship, determined as she was to prevent her thief from living in what she termed _sin_ , at which the Doctor had rolled his eyes and protested loudly that they had _only_ been wed six times previously. The TARDIS had, of course, taken umbrage, and the Time Lord had ended up on the floor, complaining loudly in Scottish, until Clara rolled on top of him and kissed him silent, and he had told her – in the ecstasy of adoration – his name, softly and secretly, murmured into the whorl of her ear. 

The eighth and ninth times had just been for the hell of it – spontaneous, occurring on adrenaline highs and soaring spirits, requesting the simple favour from those whose lives they had saved. They would occur with Clara pink in the cheeks, flushed from running and fighting and saving worlds, him beaming down at her as though there was nothing more beautiful in the world, as though she was his sun and stars – a phrase, he found himself remembering in one such moment, he had learned from one of the TV shows she had forced him to take her forward in time to spoil. After these ceremonies, after these vows of matrimony, Clara took him back to the TARDIS, and they made ecstatic, joyful love, all soft kisses and murmured compliments, heads thrown back in laughter and pleasure as they moaned each other’s names. When they finally chose to rest, they were physically and emotionally spent, and they felt the TARDIS’s amusement at the state of her thief and his human, tumbling through time and space in the pursuit of a thousand ways to say _I love you._

~/~/~/~

 

“So,” Clara said brightly, sometime after their ninth marriage, rolling over in bed and propping her chin up on her hand, looking down at the sprawled, gangly Time Lord who lay half-underneath her. “I have a proposal.” 

“Clara, if this is about getting _space-married_ ,” he said the words disdainfully, wrinkling his nose as he spoke but feeling little conviction in his words. “Then we’ve already done that. Nine times. No more proposals of the marital kind.” 

“It’s nothing to do with our marital status,” she teased lightly, reaching up to kiss him lightly. “Besides, is it really that bad marrying me?” 

He looked at her contemplatively, a smile twisting the corner of her mouth slightly upwards, and he pounced on her, rolling them both so that she was pinned lightly underneath him, his mouth hot on her neck as she squealed in surprise. “It’s terrible,” he teased, mumbling into her neck, pressing his lips against the curve of her jaw. “It’s absolutely awful.” 

“Mm,” she sighed, running one hand through his hair as he trailed kisses along her throat. “You seemed like you were complaining last night… all that _moaning_ …”

“So much moaning,” he concurred with a light chuckle, straddling her hips carefully and sitting up – weighing over, in his mind, where to place his weight, because as Clara ceaselessly told him, she was _not_ blessed with the ability to regenerate her pelvis – smirking down at her. “What’s this proposal?”

“Weeeeeeell,” she said, her blushing in a way he found abjectly adorable, and he brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I was thinking…”

“Steady on, that’s a bit much for you humans,” he retorted drily, and she protested immediately, a pillow smacking him in the chest and whacking him off centre, causing him to topple down beside her. “Hey!”

She was on top of him before he could so much as gather his thoughts, her hands pinning his wrists above his head as she breathed heavily, her neck and chest flushed pink as she grinned down at him triumphantly. “Now now,” she purred sweetly. “That wasn’t nice, was it?” 

“I…” he stammered, as she ran her tongue over her lips in a way that he found _entirely_ unfair to him maintaining his composure. “N-no, Ms Oswald.” 

“You wouldn’t want to irk your wife, now, would you, darling?” she continued, leaning down and running her lips along his collarbone, her breath hot against his skin. “Because she can be _very_ firm with you when she wants.” 

“Clara…” he managed. “You have no idea how much this is-”

“Turning you on?” she gave him the doe eyes, the ones he could never resist, and he groaned inwardly, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of doing so aloud. “Oh, but I do. Maybe if you’re ever so _good_ , and say _sorry_ , then I’ll contemplate giving you a treat…” 

With sudden dexterity she twisted so that both of his wrists were held in one of her hands – honestly, she was _tiny,_ how did she _manage_ that? – the other sliding down his stomach and toying with the waistband of his boxers. He took a sharp intake of breath, trying to control his superior Time Lord physiology. 

“I’m sorry,” he said through gritted teeth, conceding defeat at her hands. “I am sorry for insulting your species, Ms Oswald.” 

“And…?” 

“Sorry for complaining about being married to you. It wasn’t meant. Being married to you is _excellent._ ” 

She leant down so that their faces were barely an inch apart, her eyes appraising his expression critically. “Do you mean that?” she breathed, her eyes wide and flashing dangerously as she looked down at him. 

“Of course,” he assured her, and in a flash her domineering side had disappeared, his wrists suddenly free as she curled up against his chest, giggling lightly at his burgeoning arousal. _Humans_ , he thought to himself fondly. _As changeable as the bloody weather. Very arousing weather. Goddammit, Clara._  

“So,” she continued, as though nothing had happened, determinedly ignoring the _situation_ in his boxers. “I’ve been thinking… you know we went to Mayhew’s dinner party?” 

“And you got outed, drunk, and shagged an _actual blonde goddess_? How could I forget?”

“Well,” Clara overlooked his sarcasm, pausing for a moment and biting her lip as she contemplated how best to phrase her argument. “You know the after-dinner entertainment?” 

“Clara, you know, pinning me down and then making me think about you and a woman is really – _ow_ , sorry, I’ll behave. Yes, I know the after-dinner entertainment, I was there.”

“So, I was thinking…” she gave him her best, most beseeching look, hoping it would be enough to sway him in her favour. “Maybe… we could… you know, go and do that recreationally? Voluntarily?” 

“What?” he looked at her with incredulity, wondering if he had understood her correctly. “You mean…” 

“Wife swap, yeah,” she looked down, a touch embarrassed by her own request. “I don’t know. You know. If you wanted. Maybe.” 

He didn’t know what to make of the suggestion, caught as he was between somewhat aroused at the thought of her with another woman, and yet stubbornly possessive of her, unwilling to share her with another person. “Would it be with…” he managed to ask, swallowing to clear the lump in his throat. “Other women? Like… you know, like before, with Journey and Alana?”

She gave him the devastating, wide-eyed look she knew worked so effectively on his willpower, and he cursed internally. “I don’t know. Would you like that?” _Oh, gods._ “Me with another woman, me _fucking_ another woman?” She leant down, her nipples grazing his collarbone as she whispered in his ear. 

“Clara…”

“Would that turn you…”

“ _Clara._ ” 

She smirked and pulled away from him, her expression smug as the sudden withdrawal of her physical proximity stung him. “I don’t know,” she admitted, looking at him thoughtfully. “Maybe. Depends. Would _you_ fancy shagging another woman?” 

He paused, wondering what answer to give. After a few seconds of grappling with his conscience, he settled for telling her, truthfully: “I only really fancy… doing that… with you.” 

“Doing what?” she asked, her eyes large and innocent, her mouth turning up into a pout. “Say it.” 

“Clara, come on, don’t make me…” 

Her hand squeezed his crotch lightly and his breathing hitched. “Fucking you. I only like fucking you,” he hissed, and she smirked more widely. “But you with another woman…” 

“Would you _like_ that?” she tilted her head to one side slightly, surveying him through half-closed lids. “Because it could be arranged…” 

The thought of her fucking another woman was arguably enticing, he could not deny that. But something was niggling at him, and he sat up abruptly, pulling the covers around himself so that Clara could not use her body to devastating effect.

“Say we didn’t want to… chop and change with other couples…” he began nervously; aware he was on unstable ground. “Say I just – _theoretically_ – gave you free reign. Would it just be with women?” 

“I don’t know,” Clara pouted slightly, considering the question. “Maybe, maybe not. Why?”

Out of nowhere, jealousy lanced through him, white-hot, and he shook his head violently, the thought repellent, repulsive, untenable. “No, no, no. You’re not… you’re not doing that.” 

“Doing what?”

“Going off and sleeping with other blokes.”

“What, so it’s fine with a woman but not with a guy? Why is one OK but not the other?! What kind of logic is that?!”

“I haven’t _said_ it’s fine either way! This was a hypothetical discussion, it’s not _my_ fault you got me all worked up so I couldn’t think! Why is this suddenly a thing, Clara?” 

She shifted on the bed, refusing to meet his gaze, her hands twisting agitatedly in her lap. “I’m not…” she mumbled, unsure how to explain things in a way that he would understand. “I’ve not been with just one person for a really long time.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you know…” she cast him an exasperated glance. “Sexually.” 

“I thought you humans were monogamous?” he asked incredulously, scowling at her slightly. “Why is one person not enough for you, Clara? I mean, even for you, this is an exceptional level of hedonism.”

“It’s not…” tears stung at Clara’s eyes, and she scrubbed them away fiercely, determined not to let his words hurt her. “It’s not anything _like_ that, it’s just… it’s just how I _am_ , how I’ve always been…” 

“Oh, so I’m just expected to accept that, am I?” he knew he was being unfair, he knew he was being harsh on her. But the idea of her being with another man – another man, who wouldn’t know how to please her or how to touch her, another man who wouldn’t respect her – was abominable. He had known enough human men in his time to know their appetites and their contempt for women, thus the thought of Clara being exposed to that in lieu of being with him was appalling. “I don’t want you shagging other people, is that clear?” 

“ _Why_?” she blurted out. “It’s not like I’d love them, it’s just… it’s just a thing, I feel attraction to more than one person at once, I can’t _help_ that! It’s not abnormal, it’s just part of me; why can’t you accept that?” 

He should tell her, he knew. He should tell her that he didn’t want to see her harmed or disrespected. But somehow he sensed that tarring all human men with the same brush would not sit well with Clara, thus he simplified his feelings to: “Because it bothers me!”

“Are you jealous?” she snarled, her own temper flaring in response to his words. “Is that it? You can’t bear the thought of me being with anyone else? Well, here’s a fucking news flash for you: _you don’t own me._ I’m not your fucking property!”

“Funny, that’s not what you wanted me to act like at Mayhew’s; you seemed pretty keen to be my property then!” he barbed back, but he may as well have struck her, as she pulled back from him immediately, standing up and drawing herself to her – admittedly not considerable – full height. 

“How dare you?” she asked calmly, the dangerous aura surrounding her words only being _slightly_ marred by her nudity. “I wasn’t aware I’d married a misogynistic arsehole, so here’s some news for you: you’ll be sleeping alone from now on. Have fun getting to know your right hand intimately.”

With that, she turned and swept from the room, the TARDIS beeping at him in a way that was not entirely conducive to his mood. He’d messed up – that much he knew – but when it came to making it up to Clara, he was not even certain where to begin. Perhaps he should look up this human idea of non-monogamy, or look up why she was so irked by the idea of men treating women as property. Research had never been his forte – not even at the Academy – but he figured that when it came to understanding his tiny human wife, it could be a useful idea. Groaning, he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed Clara’s laptop, wondering whether the TARDIS would side with her or him, and thus whether the Wi-Fi would work in his favour.

 

~/~/~/~

 

The silent avoidance lasted for five days. Five days of interminable, endless silence, five days of painstaking Googling in an attempt to understand Clara’s point of view, five days bereft of his wife’s presence as he made copious pages of notes on feminism and open relationships and other things he was working hard to understand. He memorised new words and theories and scholars; he watched YouTube videos solidly for sixteen hours; he found the Daily Mail website and got angry about house prices, the NHS and the Academy Awards before deciding to stick to more academic, less subjective websites. 

On the sixth day, he entered his workshop to find four somewhat haphazardly iced cupcakes arranged across his tool bench, spelling out a succinct message in deep-red icing: _are you still mad?_

The answer, he supposed, was no, not now that he understood more of her point of view. Not now that he understood why she might desire to have sex with other people, why she was so frustrated by his sexual objectification – the Googling had been productive – of female sexuality, and why his so-called possessiveness of her was, in fact, denying her bodily and social autonomy. He unwrapped one of the cakes, biting into it reticently and noting with approval that it was definitely an improvement of the last batch Clara had made, the memory of which he was still attempting to banish from his expansive mind. He ate each cake slowly and carefully, and then looked around him for suitable materials to use to craft his response to her, knowing that the medium would be essential in conveying his words. 

So it was that when Clara sank into her favourite chair in the library, book in hand, she was startled – but not surprised – to find four metalwork cakes, each comprised of a multitude of nuts, bolts, screws and ragtag pieces of scrap, placed neatly along the arm of her seat in a row, a painted word on each spelling out a reply to the question she had asked her husband. _No. Can we talk?_  

“I don’t know,” she mused aloud, looking around the shelves, knowing that he would not be far away, knowing that he would have wanted to see her reaction to his handiwork. “Can we?” 

He stepped out from an aisle some distance away; a furtive, guilty look upon his face as he approached her apprehensively, wary of what her response to his presence might be. 

“Lurker,” she said fondly, but her heart was hammering in her chest. “Hello.” 

“Hello,” he responded with a small smile, keeping a respectable distance between them both, lest she lose her temper again. “How’s things?” 

“Lonely,” she admitted, the confession taking her by surprise. She had intended to attempt to be blasé about the enforced isolation. “I missed my husband, you know? When he’s not being a prat.”

“Clara,” he said softly, shuffling his feet awkwardly as he looked down at the rich crimson carpet, his cheeks flushing a matching shade. “I’m really sorry.” 

“Me too,” she sighed, and he looked at her in stupefaction, surprised by her calm demeanour. She stared back with cool composure. “What? I should’ve actually, you know, explained, rather than just getting mad at you.” 

“I should’ve listened,” the Doctor mumbled, taking a hesitant step towards her, needing physical reassurance. “Instead of being… well, being an irate stick insect, like usual.” 

“Come here,” she murmured, holding out her hand to him, and he crossed the distance between them, sinking down beside her on the loveseat. “Daft old man.” She scrambled onto his lap, snuggling into his chest and closing her eyes, letting the double beat of his hearts soothe her wounded ego. 

“I urm…” he began, wrapping his arms around her and beginning to stroke her back gently. “I did some research on… things. So I wanted to say I’m very sorry for objectifying you and for not respecting your autonomy.”

“Now now,” she looked up at him, a smile playing around the edges of her features, not quite fully manifested on her face. “You sound distinctly… _feminist._ ” 

“Maybe I am.” 

“Maybe I like it,” she grinned at him properly then. “What else did you find out when you did your investigating, then? You didn’t look up any of my exes and go and cross-examine them, did you?” 

“No, but I could if you liked?” 

“Maybe don’t,” Clara chuckled lightly, pulling a face. “They’re largely idiots, and they can’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out from me.”

“I found out,” he said slowly, wording his findings carefully. “I found out that sex can exist without love, and love can exist without sex. Right?” 

“Right,” Clara asserted, raising an eyebrow at him in surprise. “Not bad for some Googling, I’m impressed.” 

“So I’m not saying I’m OK with this,” he stated simply. “But how did it work with other boyfriends?” 

“You _hate_ talking about my old boyfriends,” Clara teased, then caught sight of his expression and sighed. “OK, it was generally fine. They weren’t, like, hugely opposed to it, unless it was with guys. But guys are very… I’m very _particular_ about guys. I tend to fall in love with one man, but then still be sexually attracted to women. I’m kinda weird like that, I guess.” 

“Not weird,” the Doctor assured her gruffly, kissing the top of her head before continuing: “Clara, love…” 

“I know what you’re gonna say,” she said quietly. “You’re going to ask about Danny, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?” 

“I always know,” she said plainly. “Danny Pink was not the sort of man who I could’ve brought this up to.” 

“And I am… why?” 

“Because I know that you trust me one hundred percent. And because you know – god, I _hope_ you know – that I love you completely, with all my heart and soul.” 

“But you didn’t love Danny completely? 

Clara sighed and rolled her eyes, astounded by the Doctor’s inability to grasp what she was telling him. “Danny was always competing with you, idiot.” 

“…oh. So you…”

“Since Bow-Tie. Yeah.” She looked up at him, a little pink in the cheeks for having made her admission. “Got that?” 

“Got that.” He cupped her cheek in his palm, brushing his thumb over her lips tenderly. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Clara…”

“Steady on,” she winked at him, and he attempted a scowl in response. “Sorry.” 

“If this is what you want, then I’m OK with it. But there is one condition, and one condition alone. That’s all I ask of you.” 

“Name it.”

“Ladies only.” 

“Oh, my Doctor… I have mentioned that I love you, right?” 

“Well, you might have mentioned it once or twice.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

They were supposed to be talking things through like adults over dinner and dessert. _Supposed_ to be. In actuality she was kissing him hungrily, stripping him out of his never-ending items of clothing, pulling away only when they both needed to breathe. Well. When _she_ needed to breathe, because seriously, _why wasn’t he in need of air_? 

“Clara,” he moaned softly, unbuttoning her blouse with deft fingers and casting it off her shoulders, feeling it tangle around their feet as Clara tried to take a step backwards. She stumbled and he swept her up at once, her legs wrapping around his waist as he swept the detritus off a work surface, sending bowls, trays and ingredients flying as he unhooked her bra and – _hang on._  

“How the hell,” he panted. “Have you got _chocolate_ on your…”

She blinked up at him innocently, dipping her finger in an overturned bowl of what might have been a soufflé, smearing it from her collarbone to between her breasts and then sucking the remains off her fingertip with a look that made him – if at all possible – even harder. 

“Know what? Never mind, it just-” 

“Are you going to talk all through this?” Clara purred, squeezing him with her thighs and pushing his mouth down to her chest. “Or are you going to get on with it?”

He did not need telling twice.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Clara stumbled into the TARDIS in the small hours of the morning, her heels in one hand and her bag held in the other. Alcohol was still coursing warmly through her system, and she hummed lightly to herself as she closed the door behind her. 

“And what time do you call this?” the Doctor called from his position in the reading chair, hands steepled together as he surveyed her with feigned sternness, one eyebrow raised in faux-consternation. 

“I call it well past sex o’clock,” she said with a giggle, feet pattering over the console room floor towards him before she launched herself into his arms. “Oh, she was a good one tonight... all fire…” 

“Oh?” the Doctor asked, trying not to sound over-eager, as Clara pressed her lips to his, her fingers making clumsy work of his buttons. “Well, I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it…” 

“Think of it as foreplay…” she purred, peeling off her top and pushing his face insistently down as she began, with a little thrill, to recount the details of the night’s conquest.


End file.
